Write It In Blood
by Ostrich on a Rampage
Summary: The strike had been going so well, that is until Crutchie had been captured by Snyder and the Delanceys and sent to the Refuge. After the unthinkable happens, Jack must choose to fight for Crutchie or leave his horrid past behind. "You'd be surprised what a man will do when he loses everything. He's going to walk away from the strike without a single glance backwards."
1. Chapter 1

**I told myself I wouldn't publish anything over the summer because wifi is going to be spotty and I should really just write everything and publish stuff in August. And, yet, here I am. I've got a couple stories I promised I would write and they are coming, but I was listening to Once and For All last week and I needed to write this. So, without further ado, a new fic.**

* * *

The strike had been a wonderful, excellent idea. Until, suddenly, it wasn't. Jack wasn't entirely sure that he could pinpoint the exact moment that everything had devolved into hell in a handbasket. One second they had been railing on the strikebreakers and then the next they were being pushed back, shoved back, forced to turn and flee. Snyder was there, in the crowd, his steel-cold eyes piercing through Jack when they found him. "Kelly!" Snyder shouted and his voice sent shivers down Jack's spine, reminding him of his time spent in the Refuge. "Kelly!" The second shout tore Jack out of his momentary immobility, fear kick-starting the adrenalin that helped him surge through the crowd, knocking aside any cop that dared get in his way.

Jack gave no notice to the other newsies that continued to fight, his fear blinding him to anyone who may have needed his assistance. Jack recalled nights huddled up in a corner of a cold room, trying not to shiver because that would only aggravate his injuries more. Jack had once, when he was younger, followed the nuns to church and listened to a sermon about the dangers of hellfire. Because of that, he had figured hell would be, well, hot as hell, as the phrase goes. Jack quickly realized, however, that hell was actually a freezing-cold building meant to mold boys into upstanding citizens. And Jack refused to go to that hell ever again, not if he still had the power to run.

So, Jack ran. He dashed down an alley, before doubling back part way, hoping that the misdirection would throw Snyder off his trail. Jack crouched down behind a trash bin, ignoring the stench of half-rotten fish that had most likely been partially picked over by feral cats the night before. He remained there, catching his breath, when he heard his name being called.

It was weak, soft, and at first Jack wasn't even certain he was being called for. "Jack!" the voice was clearer this time, and Jack could hear a note of desperation in the tone. Quietly, carefully, Jack crept towards the square where they had attempted the strike. Failed the strike, Jack corrected himself bitterly. He cautiously peered around the corner of a building, keeping his body pressed flat against the wall in order to remain unseen. Jack recognized Snyder and the Delancey brothers, his gut clenching at the sight, and it took a surprising amount of willpower to keep from running back to safety. But, Jack had heard someone call his name and he was quite certain it wasn't Snyder or the Delanceys.

"Ja—" This cry was cut off halfway by a choked sob. Snyder stepped out of the way, revealing the source of the cries, of the sob. If Jack had thought his stomach had twisted just at the sight of Snyder, the realization that Crutchie was at the mercy of these men had Jack's stomach tying itself into thick, impenetrable knots.

Even from the distance Jack was observing this horrific scene, he could make out Snyder's all-too-familiar sneer. "It's off to the Refuge with you," he announced, a little too smug for Jack's liking. It didn't bode well for Crutchie, that much Jack could tell.

Crutchie's emotions were written clearly across his bruised face: fear and pain, being the most distinguishable. Crutchie stuttered out, "N-no, please. I c-can't—" But, he was cut off as Snyder motioned for one of the Delancey brothers—Jack couldn't make out which one—to grab Crutchie by his gimp leg, yanking the smaller boy out of the square. "Jack!" Crutchie cried out and Jack could not just stand there, was incapable of watching one of his closest friends be dragged to that hell without at least some semblance of hope that Jack would do everything he could to rescue the younger boy.

"Crutchie!" Jack called out, his heart lurching when Crutchie's head immediately lifted and Jack could see the hope widening Crutchie's eyes.

"Jack!" the boy called out, struggling against the Delancey's grip. "Jack, I—" The Delancey jerked Crutchie backwards by his leg, causing the boy to cry out in pain, his hands immediately grasping the injured limb. Jack watched in horror as Crutchie continued to be dragged backwards, before noticing Snyder's eyes meeting his. A malicious grin spread across Snyder's features and Jack realized he had to leave now, or risk being dragged back to the Refuge along with Crutchie.

But, Jack couldn't just leave Crutchie, not to those horrors. Jack was torn between saving himself and attempting a rescue. Odds were that Jack would be unable to get Crutchie away, not with his leg busted up the way it was now. He could do it, maybe, if he caught one of the Delanceys by surprise, managed to knock him square in the jaw… But, who was Jack kidding. He was no hero. Jack tried to make eye contact with Crutchie once more, reassure him that he would save him, would come for him, would never leave the younger boy all alone in the Refuge, but Crutchie was still gripping his leg, eyes squeezed shut against the pain shooting up and down the bum limb. With one last glance backward at Crutchie, Jack took the lower road. He ran, choosing to save his own skin over Crutchie's.

Jack would never regret anything more in his life.

Pausing to catch his breath, Jack glanced backwards. Snyder was nowhere in sight. He wasn't even sure if the middle-aged man had chased after him. Jack had run without a second look back towards Snyder, pounding the ever-present guilt about leaving Crutchie into the pavement with each step. Now that the coast seemed clear, he shoved his hands deep into his pockets, electing to walk the rest of the way to the Lodging House. Crutchie was gone, taken to the Refuge.

With a nod of resolution, Jack decided that he'd rescue Crutchie just as soon as he could; he wouldn't leave the boy there any longer than he had to. In fact, tonight, he'd get Davey or one of the other older boys to help him get Crutchie out of there.

He pulled himself up to the roof top, deciding to await the other boys' return to the Lodging House there. If they would even show up. Jack knew that he had truly screwed up, wondered why he had even thought the strike was a good idea. He couldn't believe that it had gone so wrong, so quickly. To himself, Jack muttered, "Folks, we've finally got our headline: Newsies Crushed as Bulls Attack." Honestly, though, they hadn't even stood a chance. They were just a bunch of kids. Why had Jack even thought they'd all make it out of there without a single injury? Everyone had gotten hurt and Crutchie—Crutchie was in the Refuge, of all places. "Crutchie's calling me. Dumb crip's just too damn slow," Jack said, the bitterness creeping through his veins like a poison he'd never be able to get rid of. "Guys are fightin', bleedin', fallin', thanks to good, ol' Cap'n Jack. Cap'n Jack just wants to close his eyes and go!" Jack shouted. He was so sick of this city and just wanted to leave.

"Let me go," he sang softly. "Far away. Somewhere they won't evah find me and tomorrow won't remind me of today." If Jack could just get away from these awful mistakes, these horrific memories, he knew that he'd be fine. There was really only one place he could go, only one place he wanted to go to. "When the city's finally sleeping and the moon looks old and gray, I get on a train that's bound for Santa Fe.

"And I'm gone! And I'm done!" And I'm not to blame for failed strikes or—or for Crutchie. "No more running. No more lying. No more fat ol' men denying me my pay." Because really, this was all Pulitzer's fault. If he had just been fair and square from the start no one would have been hurt. No one.

"Just a moon so big and yellow, it turns night right into day," Jack breathed, envisioning a town where everything was beautiful and peaceful and he wouldn't have to worry about nothing. "Dreams come true. Yeah, dey do, in Santa Fe." Not in New York, not where the only people who win are the big wigs with the large bellies and even larger wallets. It just wasn't fair.

"Where does it say you gotta live and die here? Where does it say a guy can't catch a break? Why should you only take what you're given?" Jack asked, wishing that someone had the answers for him. Maybe it just simply came down to fate and Jack just wasn't lucky enough to get a chance at a future. "Why should you spend your whole life living trapped where there ain't no future, even at seventeen? Breaking your back for someone else's sake." This couldn't be fate. That wouldn't be right. "If the life don't seem to suit you, how 'bout a change of scene? Far from the lousy headlines and the deadlines in between.

"Santa Fe!" Jack cried out, as if the town could hear him, could just sweep him away from everything. "My old friend! I can't spend my whole life dreaming, though I know that's all I seem inclined to do. I ain't getting any younger," Jack bemoaned. He had already wasted so much of his life, of his youth, in this dratted city. "And I wanna start brand new." He just wanted to be away from everything, to not have to ever think about Snyder or the Delanceys ever again.

"I need space! And fresh air! Let 'em laugh in my face, I don't care!" Jack was willing to do anything to get away, go through any ridicule, just to be free of the city. "Save my place," he whispered. "I'll be dere."

With a soft laugh, Jack added, "Just be real, is all I'm asking. Not some painting in my head." If he had imagined this entire perfect world up—Jack shook his head. He hadn't. He couldn't have. "'Cuz I'm dead if I can't count on you today." He'd just have nothing to live for. It was as simple as that. "I got nothing if I ain't got Santa Fe," Jack announced to an uncaring world. Not that he expected anyone to care. No one did. Well, no one but Crutchie. And wasn't that just the whole issue.

Sighing softly, Jack gazed out at the New York sky, suddenly feeling claustrophobic surrounded by the gray, emotionless buildings. He had to get out of here. Jack swung down the ladder, not willing to remain on a roof that reminded him of Crutchie, that reminded him of his awful failure earlier that day. Jack wandered away from the Lodging House, needing to walk off his frustration. With a curt nod to himself, Jack decided to make his way to the Refuge. And he wasn't coming back without his best friend.

* * *

Davey tried to pull Jack inside the Lodging House, but Jack planted his feet firmly and refused to go inside. It had taken a worryingly amount of time, but Davey had finally found Jack moping backstage of Medda's show and had had to forcibly pull Jack along to the Lodging House. "Look, Davey, I've given up being a newsie. I'm done," Jack explained almost calmly. Davey, however, could tell that there was an anxiety straining Jack's words.

"Yeah, well, we aren't. You disappeared for nearly two days, Jack. Where did you even run off to? You're still the leader of this strike."

"And what if I don't wanna be?" Jack challenged. He lowered his voice. "You know Crutchie's in the Refuge. I went to go get him outta there, but I couldn't. They beat 'im. They beat Crutchie so bad he couldn't make it out the window, could barely make it to the window. And that's all 'cuz of me, Davey. I'm done with all this."

Davey shook his head. "Jack, I don't think you get it. The other boys are depending on you."

"Depending on me to get them hurt? Apparently, I'm fantastic at that."

"Jack, I'm just asking you to—"

"And I gave ya my answer. Do you need me to slug you in the jaw? I will if I need to," Jack threatened.

"That's not—" Davey cut himself off, shaking his head in defeat. "If we give it one more go," Davey began again, "we'll be able to beat them. We're winning, Jack."

"Kids were being beat half to death by the cops. That don't look like winning to me."

Davey opened his mouth to explain his reasoning, when Katherine dashed up to the two boys. "Jack! Davey! I've been looking all over for you." She glanced at Jack, almost in trepidation, before continuing onwards. "I only just heard and I wanted you to hear it from me before Snyder or—"

Katherine was interrupted by a cold, calculating voice. "Good day, boys." Jack whirled around, finding himself face to face with the Delancey brothers. Oscar Delancey sneered at Jack, while Morris crossed his arms aggressively. "Or, maybe a not so good day," Oscar added, winking at Jack.

"We've got some bad news, fellows," Morris elaborated.

Oscar tossed a crutch to Jack, who caught it swiftly. It was Crutchie's, Jack realized upon examining it. He recognized where Crutchie had scratched in his initials the day Jack had bought him the new crutch. Crutchie had explained that he didn't want none of the other boys taking his crutch and messing with it and had, therefore, marked it as his own. "Why are you giving this to me?" Jack asked slowly, fearing where this was going. It didn't help that Katherine kept nervously glancing between Jack and the Delancey brothers. She was even biting her lip and Katherine was generally so calm and collected. Something was definitely wrong.

Morris grinned sadistically. "Let's just say that dear old Crutchie won't be needing this anymore."

"What do you mean?" Jack asked, his chest tightening. They couldn't possibly mean that—

"He's dead," Oscar put it bluntly. "Couldn't take his fair punishment, if you catch my drift."

Jack shook his head, unwilling to believe it. He felt as if someone had taken a spoon and was painstakingly hollowing out his stomach. It hurt and the pain was just getting deeper and deeper, settling to a point that Jack knew he'd never be rid of if the boy was— "No," he breathed. "No, he's not. He can't be—Crutchie has to be—"

"Nah, he's dead," Morris said, picking at the grime under his fingernails. "And a good thing, too. The kid wouldn't stop screaming and squealing. Gave me a headache, his cries did. I was thankful when we finally shut him up for good."

Jack punched Morris in the nose. Hard. He nearly grinned when he felt the cartilage snap under the pressure. Morris stumbled backwards, growling, "Well, you didn't have to hit me so hard. Don't shoot the messenger…"

Oscar leered at Jack. "Even if you don't believe us, you can ask your girlfriend over there. She knows what we're talking about, don't you, sweetie?"

Katherine looked as if she wanted to rip Oscar's tongue out, but resisted when Jack turned to her, asking, "It's not true, is it? Crutchie isn't—It can't be true." His eyes were pleading that she tell him it was some awful joke, that it was all a vicious lie, and Katherine desperately wanted to do so. But, the truth was more important at a time like this.

Unable to maintain eye contact, she lowered her eyes. "I just found out myself. I heard at the newspaper." Katherine glanced up at Jack, whose face remained impassive, almost as if he hadn't heard the news. The only sign that he had, in fact, heard Katherine was that his face had turned a soft shade of gray. "I'm sorry, Jack," Katherine said softly.

Davey's face paled. "I don't believe it…" he murmured, turning to Jack. He hadn't thought anyone would die because of the strike. Get hurt, sure. That was expected. But, _death_? And Crutchie's, no less. Davey felt a sharp, guilty pain constrict his heart. Crutchie was dead because of him. Because he had helped convince everyone that a strike was a good idea. And if Davey was blaming himself, he couldn't imagine how much more Jack was piling the guilt on. His best friend was dead. His brother, really. Davey didn't even want to try imagining what it would be like if Les had died in the strike. "Jack, everything's going to be okay." Except, Davey knew, it really wouldn't be. Crutchie was dead. He had to say something, though. Somehow, Davey had to make sure that Jack didn't drown in the ocean of blame he had probably dove headfirst into. "We're going to get through this. All of us, together."

"Except the crip," Oscar pointed out, much too cheerfully.

"I—" Jack paused, glancing at Davey, before turning back to Katherine. "I've got to go," he said, a slight tremor detectable in his voice. With that, he shoved past the Delanceys, running away from everything.

"Jack, wait!" Davey cried out.

Jack ignored the other boy. He wished he could just run away from all of these problems, just head out to Santa Fe. But, now Santa Fe would only serve as a vicious reminder of Crutchie, the boy who just wanted to stand, to run. The boy he had gotten killed. Jack shook his head, he wouldn't think about that, not ever again. Running from the past was hard, probably impossible, but that wouldn't stop Jack from trying.

Jack was no hero; he was a coward.

* * *

 **Oh. Well. I'm publicly apologizing to my reviewers from Making Tomorrow's Headlines who were upset about the ending there. As Britney Spears would say, "Oops, I did it again." Does that date me? Dang it. Anyway, next week (sometime) I'll post the next chapter featuring Crutchie's point of view, so there is that to look forward to.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Well, I'm sorry for the wait. My days off were a little hectic, so I'm just quickly uploading this before my shift starts. But the next chapter will be up much sooner, I promise. Anyway, here's the next chapter!**

* * *

Crutchie was unable to completely bite back a cry as he was unceremoniously tossed into the corner of a room in the Refuge. He had never been there before, but had been regaled by all the tales Jack and the boys would tell. He had learned of the horrors that took place in the Refuge second hand. And now Crutchie would have the opportunity to discover them first hand.

"Shut up, crip," Oscar muttered. "Snyder wants to question you."

Crutchie glanced up fearfully. "A-about what?"

Oscar squinted at the younger boy. "The strike, idiot. What did you think?"

"Well, I didn't know—" Crutchie began, but went silent when he noticed Snyder entering the room. Crutchie wasn't certain if he had hit his head too hard on the pavement when Oscar had dragged him away or if Snyder was really capable of sucking all the light and warmth out of the room, but it sure seemed as if the sun rays streaming through the nearby window were lessening. Or maybe Crutchie was just completely terrified. His ribs still ached from where the Delanceys had kicked him around and Crutchie knew that he probably had a couple welts covering his body thanks to Snyder's handiwork with the crutch. Not to mention that his leg would occasionally spasm after the strain it had been subjected to earlier.

"Tell me about the strike," Snyder said, pacing the room.

"Uh, okay, but you was there, so you might—"

Snyder motioned to Oscar, who slapped Crutchie's cheek, shutting him up instantly. "That's not what I mean, boy," Snyder sneered. "What are your plans for the strike now that you've been beat?"

"I don't know," Crutchie told Snyder. He cried out, when Oscar punched him in the stomach. "I don't, I promise," he exclaimed. "You'se guys dragged me here; how am I supposed to know what they'se planning?"

After a moment of silence that was shattered by Crutchie's shuddering breaths, Oscar pointed out, "That does make sense."

Snyder scratched his chin. "Okay. What do you plan to gain out of the strike?"

"We just wanted to be treated fairly," Crutchie explained. "It ain't fair to raise the price of the papes for us; we can't pay for that."

"So, you just expect, what, Pulitzer to lower the prices for a bunch of grungy newsboys?" Snyder laughed. "I think you boys will be mighty disappointed."

"No, we won't," Crutchie retorted. "We ain't selling a pape until he lowers the price and he'll have to."

"Be quiet, boy," Snyder hissed. He paced the room for a second before asking, "What are the newsboys' weak points?"

Crutchie blinked up at Snyder from his corner on the ground. "You—you just expect me to betray them like that? They'se my family, I ain't tellin' you nothing," Crutchie said, his voice firm. He wouldn't betray them, not when they were going to win the strike, not when they just needed a couple more days to bring Pulitzer to his knees.

Snyder grinned. "Oscar was hoping you would say that."

Crutchie expected the pain, tried to prepare himself for that. He just didn't expect there to be so much. Oscar Delancey knew exactly how to inflict pain; it was almost an art to him. Crutchie was a blank canvas, awaiting the artist's touch. After he was finished, Oscar stepped back to admire his handiwork, envisioning how the bruises and blood would mold together to create a work of art.

With a grunt of satisfaction, Oscar left, proud of what he had created.

Crutchie wasn't able to distinguish where one ache began and another ended, he just felt like one giant, breathing bruise that was being poked and prodded over and over again. Snyder had half-heartedly tried to get information from Crutchie for the first couple minutes or so, asking Crutchie to give up the newsies. Eventually, the middle-aged man nodded to Oscar and he just left, leaving Oscar to beat on the cripple.

Crutchie must have slipped out of consciousness because the next thing he knew it was dark out and a couple boys had fallen asleep in the beds that filled the room from wall to wall. Crutchie tried to sit up, but all his aches made themselves known at the same time, convincing Crutchie that it would probably be best if he just laid there and tried not to move or blink or breathe.

He had just slipped into that semi-conscious sleep, where you are vaguely aware of your surroundings, but you're just too exhausted to do anything about them, when a light tapping at the window jerked Crutchie out of his exhaustion. He hissed as his muscles screamed abuse at this new offense, before glancing at the window, wondering if some bird had run into it or something of the like.

But, no, it was none other than Jack Kelly, shooting Crutchie a grin as he stood outside the window. On what, Crutchie had no idea. He didn't care, however, and was just glad to see a friendly face. Jack motioned for Crutchie to open the window, mouthing something that Crutchie couldn't quite catch.

Gritting his teeth, Crutchie dragged himself to the window, his arms straining against the weight of his body and the pain that would seize up his muscles. A few long minutes later, Crutchie reached the window. He noticed that Jack was no longer smiling and worried, for a second, that Jack was getting impatient. Jack had a point, Crutchie realized, Snyder could check in at any time, so Crutchie hurried and unlocked the window. As soon as it was unlatched, Crutchie leaned back against the wall under the window, letting his breathing return to normal.

Jack quietly pushed the window open, leaning in to make eye contact with Crutchie, who bent his head backward to grin up at his friend. "Hiya, Jack. Fancy meeting you here."

"What happened to you, Crutch?" Jack asked, examining his friend and noting the way that Crutchie held himself carefully, even as he leaned against the wall.

"I'm fine. Never been better," Crutchie lied, grinning. "How 'bout you? Is that a black eye?"

"Crutchie, you don't look fine."

"Neither does your face, but you didn't hear me making rude comments."

Jack rolled his eyes, a tad of irritation entering his voice. "I don't have time for jokes, Crutchie. I'm breaking you outta here."

Crutchie's face fell, the smile that had been plastered there, slipping. "I—I don't know if I can, Jack. Can't move very well, right now," Crutchie said softly, before grinning again, though it looked strained to Jack. "But, that's okay, I appreciate the visit. Don't think most of the other boys get visitors. Won't they be jealous?"

"Crutch, this is serious. We need to get you out; you need to come with me." Jack crawled through the window, gently landing on the ground beside Crutchie. "Come on, give me your hand. I ain't leaving you ever again. Even if I have to carry you all the way back to the Lodging House."

"I ain't being carried," Crutchie informed the older boy. "Not ever. I can do this," he said, accepting Jack's hand and allowing his best friend to pull him upward. As Crutchie stood up, however, he suddenly screamed out in pain, only to clap his hand against his mouth to cut off the sound and sink back to the ground. Between heavy breathing, Crutchie managed to tell Jack, "Can't. Hurts… so bad." He tried to keep his voice steady, but the words came out sounding more like whimpers than Crutchie meant for them to.

The other boys in the room were starting to stir, but Jack took no notice. "I ain't leaving you," Jack hissed. "You just gotta get out the window and then Davey can help me get you home."

Crutchie shook his head, the grief and pain in his eyes belaying the smile that he tossed at Jack. "Just go, Jack. I'll be fine. I always am."

"No, I ain't—" Jack fell silent as he heard a familiar pair of shoes clomping up the stairs. "Snyder," he breathed, fear clutching his heart.

"Go," Crutchie whispered. "Go now before it's too late. I can always escape some other time."

"I'll be back," Jack promised his friend. He wanted to get Crutchie out of there, knowing full well that the younger boy was only there because Jack had failed to save him during the strike. But, Snyder was coming and getting himself caught wasn't going to help Crutchie at all. "I'll get ya outta here as soon as I can. I swear." Jack's eyes were deadly serious and Crutchie recognized this to be one of Jack's oaths that he would keep, no matter the cost.

Crutchie smiled. "I know. I trust you."

Jack matched Crutchie's smile, before slipping out of the window, shutting it gently behind him. As soon as he was gone, Crutchie's smile disappeared in anticipation for Snyder's anger. He leaned tiredly against the wall, not knowing if he would be able to survive a beating like the last couple ones. Not that he was giving up. There was no way he was going to die in this squalid place. Besides, Jack would kill him if he died. Crutchie huffed a little at that thought, but immediately regretted the small bit of laughter. Wow, his ribs hurt.

Snyder entered the room, for once not in some gray suit, but wearing pressed purple satin pajamas. Crutchie thought it was pretty stupid to press something that would only get wrinkled in bed, but maybe Snyder needed to use his ill-gotten money somehow and pressed pajamas was his choice of expenditure. "What was that noise?" Snyder roared, his eyes immediately alighting on Crutchie near the window. "What are you doing, boy?"

"Sleeping. Or, I was until you bust in here all noisy-like," Crutchie muttered.

Snyder looked like he wanted to strangle Crutchie, but resisted. He turned to a small boy with jet-black hair and dark circles under each eye. "Sid, what happened?"

The kid jerked his head to Crutchie and the window. "Some kid came to rescue the crip over there. I think I heard the crip call him Jack. Anyway, the kid left right before you got in here, but he did promise to return and get the crip some other time."

"Jack, huh?" Snyder mused, turning to Crutchie, who was glaring at Sid. How could that kid just betray him and Jack like that? Weren't they all stuck in the Refuge together? Weren't they supposed to help each other? Snyder's next words, however, tore Crutchie out of his angry thoughts. "Think of this, Sid. What if Jack came back, but there was no crip to rescue?"

"Whaddya mean?" Sid asked.

"I mean that I may have just discovered this strike's weakness. Jack's weakness." Snyder fixed Crutchie with a cold stare. "It's you, dear Crutchie."

"I ain't gonna be some sort of bait in your sick game of cat and mouse," Crutchie quickly objected.

"Bait?" Snyder asked. "Oh, no. Not bait. That would give Jack hope that he could rescue you, that he could fix this." Snyder nodded his head, grinning. "No, you won't be bait. You'll be dead."

"You—you ain't gonna murder me," Crutchie whispered. He hadn't thought that Snyder would actually kill someone, just to get at Jack. Beat 'em, sure. Make their life hell, of course. But, murder? That was an entirely different ball game. One that Crutchie most definitely did not want to be involved in.

"No, I'm not going to kill you. Could you imagine the lawsuits?" Snyder told Crutchie. "But, Jack won't know that. No one will…" With a sudden resolve, Snyder shouted, "Oscar! Morris! Come help me move Crutchie to a new, special room."

Oscar and Morris entered the room, blearily rubbing sleep from their eyes. "We're doin' what?" Morris asked.

"Tearing the strike apart. Bring Crutchie and I'll explain to you my plan."

Once the Delancey brothers had transported Crutchie to a room that conjoined Snyder's own personal room, Snyder bent down to be eye level with Crutchie. "This'll really bring Jack to his knees. Your strike is as good as finished."

"Jack won't give up," Crutchie told Snyder proudly.

"You'd be surprised what a man would do when he loses everything. He's going to walk away from the strike that killed his loyal cripple without a single glance backwards."

"Jack won't give up," Crutchie repeated, but it sounded hollower than he meant it to. Crutchie knew that Jack didn't take promises lightly and kept his word as law. Jack had promised he would get Crutchie out of the Refuge and if he believe that Crutchie was dead… Crutchie couldn't even imagine the guilt that would weigh his best friend down. But, would it be enough to send him running to Santa Fe? "He won't," Crutchie said weakly.

Snyder sneered. "Oh, we shall see."

* * *

 **And you guys all thought I killed Crutchie. Do I look like someone who would do that? I mean, disregarding previous stories and... Oh, shut up. Just be glad he's not dead.**


	3. Chapter 3

**So, last night I finally got to see Newsies! Ugh, I almost died; it was so perfect. In honor of that, I've decided to post a little early, so here's the next chapter. There will be one more after this, so we're drawing to the close. Yeah, anyway, read on, my ostriches.**

* * *

Jack stood in line to purchase a train ticket. He had no idea where he was going, or even if the amount of money he had in his pocket could take him far; Jack just knew that he had to get out of there, as quickly as possible. Just as Jack reached the fourth position in line, he heard a familiar cry behind him. "Jack!"

For a brief second, Jack imagined the voice to be Crutchie's and he turned, eager to greet the friend he had believed to be dead. But, it wasn't Crutchie, Jack realized, recognizing Race as he shoved through the crowd to reach Jack. It couldn't be Crutchie. Crutchie was dead. Murdered by Snyder and the Delanceys. All because of Jack. He turned back to the window, bitterly.

"Jack!" Race shouted again, sliding to a stop beside the older boy. "Whatcha doing?" he asked, his eyes flicking up to the ticket booth. "Runnin' to Santa Fe?"

Jack flinched at the name of his past dream. His and Crutchie's dream. "I'm just leavin'," Jack informed Race. He couldn't go to Santa Fe, that much Jack knew, but he still had to get out of the city that had robbed him of his family, robbed him of Crutchie.

"Well, ya can't," Race replied. "We still need you. For the strike, remember?"

"Yeah, like that went so well," Jack scoffed.

"Davey says it will only get better, that we'se gonna start winnin' soon."

"I said no, Race. Get it through that thick skull of yours."

"But, Jack, we'se all dependin' on you to lead us."

"Crutchie's dead!" Jack roared, his eyes flashing angrily, the anger completely masking his grief. As the anger faded, Jack continued, much quieter, "And look where my leadin' got him." He turned his back to Race, not trusting his eyes to be completely dry.

Race remained silent for a long moment, before whispering, "Jack, ya ain't the only one who was hurt by this. We was friends with him, too, y'know. All da boys are hurtin'. Some of the younger ones was still crying when I left to find you. But, we gotta finish the strike; we'se all in agreeance about that. It's what Crutchie would have wanted." When Jack didn't respond, just continued staring into the back of the man in front of him, Race added, "We'se doing this for him, in honor of Crutchie. We'se gotta finish this for Crutchie and we need you to help us do that."

"And what if I can't?" Jack asked softly. "What if I just wanna leave?"

"I guess I can understand that," Race told Jack. "And it's your choice, ultimately." Race paused. He didn't exactly know how Jack would take his next comment, but he had to get it off his chest. Race took a deep breath, before quickly saying, "Don't take this the wrong way, Jack, but if this was switched around and you'd been killed, Crutchie wouldn't 'ave run. Crutchie would 'ave fought and fought until we got our rights and the strike was finished." He hesitated, knowing that Jack probably didn't want to hear this right now. "That's what he would 'ave done and maybe I didn't know Crutchie as well as you did," Race added, preempting any comment Jack may have made about his and Crutchie's strong friendship, "but I think he'd want you to fight for him."

"Race, I—"

But, Race continued, ignoring Jack. "Maybe runnin' is the right thing for you, I don't know. All I know is that Crutchie deserves to be remembered, and if that's through finishing the strike, then so be it. Right now, though, it just seems like you'se trying to forget him, that you'se just going to run away from his memory and that just ain't right. Crutchie deserves a hell of a lot more than that," Race stopped, shrugging. "That's just my opinion," he told Jack, sticking his hands into his pockets. "You'll do what ya want to and me and the other boys can't stop you. And we won't even try. You make your choice and we'se going to respect that. Just—Just don't forget about Crutchie," Race said. "He doesn't deserve anything like that. Especially not from you," Race added softly.

With that, Race nodded once to Jack, before making his way back toward the Lodging House, disappearing into the crowd at the train station. Jack craned his neck to catch one last glimpse of Race, the younger boy's words echoing in his head. As much as Jack hated to admit it, Race was right. Crutchie shouldn't just be forgotten. He should be remembered, should be fought for. But…that would require Jack returning to the strike and he wasn't entirely sure that he could face Davey and the other boys, let alone Snyder and the Delanceys. "Next!" the man at the counter shouted, motioning for Jack to step forward. "Where to, boy?" he asked. Jack had to make a decision. Now. He could return to the newsies, or he could take the easy way out and just leave. "Where to?" the man repeated.

Jack shook his head. "I'm staying here," he told the man in the booth. He needed to, for Crutchie. It's what Crutchie would have done for him.

"Okay, then get outta line," the man said, jerking his thumb to the side to indicate that Jack needed to leave.

Jack headed out of the train station, slowly making his way back to the Lodging House. He wondered if Race had already told all the other boys that Jack had left, run away from the strike. Jack stopped outside of the front door, suddenly afraid to go inside, though that notion was absolutely ridiculous. These boys were like family to him and they wouldn't be too harsh on him for almost leaving them in their time of need. At least, Jack hoped so. Just as Jack was working up the courage to open the door—and who knew that it would require so much willpower?—Romeo swung open the door, calling back inside, "We'se gotta get more—" Romeo cut himself off as he noticed Jack sheepishly standing in front of him. "Hey!" he shouted, excitedly, "Jack's here! He came back!"

Jack was ushered in and almost heralded as a hero. All the boys came up and shook hands with him, welcoming him back. It was all so stupid, though. They should be mad at him, distrust him for not sticking with them, for nearly running from it all. Davey clapped Jack on the back while Race commented from the back of the room, "I knew you'd make it, cowboy."

"I'm glad one of us did," Jack muttered, his hands shoved into his pockets.

"We're gonna win." Les informed Jack seriously. "For Crutchie."

"That's the plan," Jack said. He still wasn't completely sure that they'd really be able to win, had no idea why Davey seemed so sure of it. Everything had fallen apart the time before; why would the next fight be any different?

There was a sharp knock at the door, interrupting Jack's thoughts. Romeo, who was still near the door, answered it, before quickly directing the visitor in. Spot Conlon glanced around the room, noting the boys, before his eyes settled on Jack. "Jack," he said slowly. "I just heard about Crutchie." Jack glanced at the ground, as Spot continued speaking. "I'm real sorry 'bout that. The kid deserved a lot better than—than that." Spot fell silent for a moment. He added, "Brooklyn will join you in the strike. It's what Crutchie would've wanted."

Jack's head jerked up at that and Davey spoke up in surprise. "You're going to help us?"

Spot shrugged. "It ain't right to go around killin' crips. And you'se guys probably need all the help you can get. We'll be there. Just wanted to tell ya." Spot nodded at the boys, before exiting the Lodging House.

Jack quickly followed him. "Spot!" he called out, stopping the shorter boy. "Why are you helping us?"

Spot gave Jack a strange look. "I swear I just told ya."

"For Crutchie?"

"Why are ya surprised, Jack? Everyone was friends with Crutchie. He was probably one of the nicest kids to walk—uh, gimp around on this earth. Of course we'se all gonna fight for him."

Jack shrugged. "I just… Never mind."

"You just would rather run off? I was actually surprised you was still around when I dropped by. Thought for sure you had turned tail and gone off to that stupid dream-land of yours." Spot snorted. "That's why I was so surprised when you and Crutch became such good friends. He's the type that wouldn't give up, would fight until he physically could not. And even then, Crutchie'd still be trying his hardest. And you, Jack? You'se the type that dreams and dreams and when it gets hard you dreams some more. You'd rather chase after a dream than grapple with reality." Spot gave a half-shrug.

"It was just—without Crutchie—"

"Yeah, well, everyone dies, Jack. Maybe Crutchie should have lived longer, but maybe he shouldn't have. Either way, he's dead, Jack. Dead as dead can be. You just gotta move on."

Jack shook his head and growled, "He shouldn't have been killed by Snyder. He was murdered, Spot. And we ain't even gonna have a funeral for him. I don't know what that Spider did with his body, won't even let us give him a proper burial."

"Life sucks, Jack. But we'se gonna show Snyder at the strike. At this point, that's the best we can do. Ya can't bring him back from the dead, so ya might as well fight for his memory." Spot snorted. "And they calls you the leader of Manhattan. You'se over here just weepin' and moanin' about some dead crip."

"I ain't weepin'."

Spot shrugged. "Whatever. I need ta get going. But Brooklyn will be there. We'll show Snyder that when you take away one newsie, a whole load of others show up. Like one of dem mythical monsters, y'know."

Jack watched Spot leave, disappearing into the dusk. As much as Jack hated to admit it, Spot was right. Race was right. Hell, it seemed all the boys were right. Crutchie deserved to be remembered through the strike. Running away from New York wasn't going to change anything; Crutchie would still be dead, murdered. But, finishing the strike would help better the world that had wronged Jack's best friend.

It would be hard, Jack realized, as he reentered the Lodging House. He ignored the stares of the other newsboys, situating himself in a corner of the room to watch the preparation for the strike. Everything reminded him of Crutchie: the way Les lofted a banner that had been painted with the word "STRIKE," the excitement that shone on Romeo's face as he reenacted how he had beat back two cops, the brown cap that Race plopped on Spec's head. If Jack just closed his eyes and listened, he could almost imagine Crutchie's laughter intermingling with the other boys', could almost picture Crutchie elbowing Mush and helping Davey plan the strike.

That was all he had left, his imagination and his memories. Jack understood this and, as much as he didn't want to, he accepted it. Or, would grow to accept it. He needed to be stronger, needed to work harder for Crutchie. The only way to avenge the innocent blood that had been spilled would be through winning the strike. Jack would do anything to win, would rather join Crutchie in the ranks of the dead, than let Snyder the Murdering Spider have the last laugh.

Davey made eye contact with Jack, noting the way the other boy's face had hardened. "We'll win it this time," Davey reassured Jack.

Jack nodded. "This blasted city has won just about every fight against me: I've lost my family, I've lost my rights, and I've lost Crutchie. But, I ain't gonna lose to her. Not ever again."


	4. Chapter 4

**So I recognize that I sorta changed the ending of the musical, but this is fanfiction, so you can't really expect too much from me, 'kay? Anyway, this is the conclusion of this story, but, trust me, there are plenty more that I'm planning. I shall not disappear off the face of the planet, honest promise. Enjoy!**

* * *

The morning of the strike dawned bright and clear. It was the start of something new, the beginning of a new era that would ensure fair treatment of the newsies. Jack glanced among the faces of all the newsboys, noting the determination that set the features of each boy. Even Les looked serious, holding the banner he had created with the utmost care.

All eyes were on Jack and he realized they were expecting a speech of some sort. "I don't have to tell you what we're up against," Jack began, recalling their first attempt at the strike and how quickly they had been pushed backwards. How Crutchie had been captured. "And I shouldn't need to tell you what we're fighting for. We're fighting for our rights, for the rights of everyone who is being smothered by the big names and corporations." Jack took a steadying breath, before adding, "And we're fighting for Crutchie.

"He would've wanted to be out here with us, fighting against Pulitzer, against the world. Really, Crutchie was one of the strongest supporters of the strike, he may have even wanted it more than Davey and I." Jack laughed bitterly. "Crutchie just wanted what was best for us all. He dreamed of a world where we'd be treated fairly and he gave his life for that dream. If we respect Crutchie at all, we'll win this strike. For him. For Crutchie."

"For Crutchie!" the boys shouted as one voice, fists raised into the air.

"I bet," Les piped up, "Crutchie even joins us in the strike."

Jack let a grin quirk at his lips. "He wouldn't miss it for the world," he reassured Les. Addressing the group of boys, Jack softly began to sing, "There's change coming once and for all. You makes the front page and then you is major news."

Davey joined in, speaking for the other boys. "Tomorrow they'll see what we are."

Katherine spoke up, putting her arm around Jack. "And as sure as a star, we ain't come this far to lose."

Which was an interesting way to word it, Jack mused. There had been one night, shortly after Jack had allowed Crutchie up to his rooftop, when Jack had almost fallen asleep, his head pillowed upon his arm, but had jerked back to consciousness as Crutchie spoke up. "Do ya ever wish you was a star, Jack?"

"Like in the sky?" Jack had asked sleepily, blinking blearily at the younger boy.

"Yeah, just floating up there without a care in the world."

Jack had shook his head. "Nah, Crutchie. I ain't ever even thought about bein' a star."

"I think it would be nice. They's the only constant things in this world. Everything can change but them stars will still be right there, lighting up the darkest part of the sky," Crutchie had sighed, before continuing. "Even when it got the worst, back at home—" Jack had stiffened at these words. Crutchie hadn't ever really told him about what had led the younger boy to find refuge on the streets. He had remained silent as Crutchie kept speaking, probably not even noticing the awkward way Jack avoided eye contact. "—there were always stars, every night. I could look outta my window and know I weren't ever alone, so long as I had a star or two watching over me." Crutchie had shrugged before glancing at Jack. "It's stupid, really."

"No, it's—it's nice," Jack had told Crutchie, gazing at the stars with newfound interest. They were always there and would remain up in the sky for the rest of the two boys' lives, unchanging and constant.

Now, Jack glanced up at the sky, wishing he could catch a glimpse of the stars that Crutchie had loved so much. Even though his best friend was gone forever, the stars would remain. And maybe Crutchie had gotten his wish and he was now one of them stars blinking up in the night sky.

"Here they come!" Race shouted, pulling Jack out of his thoughts.

The newsies gathered together, continuing the song Jack had started, "This is the story we needed to write as we're kept out of sight, but no more!" No longer would their misfortunes be kept silent, no longer would Pulitzer be able to get away with raising the price of the newspaper without any form of recompense. "In a few hours, by dawn's early light, we'll be ready to fight us a war. This time we're in it to stay, talk about seizing the day—"

Jack quickly spoke up, "Write it in ink or in blood, it's the same either way." Snyder had killed one of their own and Jack knew that he wouldn't hesitate to dish out the same punishment. Crutchie's death had been so pointless, really. If Pulitzer had simply allowed the boys their rights, they wouldn't have needed to strike. If they hadn't decided upon that stupid strike, Crutchie would still be right there, on Jack's side. Nothing would ever be the same again and it was all because of Pulitzer and Snyder. They wouldn't get away with that, not if Jack had a say. "They're gonna damn well pay!" Jack growled. Crutchie would not go unavenged.

"See old man Pulitzer, snug in his bed. He don't care if we're dead or alive," a couple of the boys lamented. It was true. He hadn't done anything for the newsboys after Crutchie was murdered, probably didn't even know the kid's name. "Three satin pillows are under his head while we's begging for bread to survive. Joe, you can stop counting sheep; we're gonna sing ya to sleep," the boys threatened, growing braver as they all banded together. How could they possibly lose? "You've got your thugs with their sticks and their slugs, but we got a promise to keep!"

As long as they were fighting for Crutchie, there was no way anyone would give up. Jack scanned the faces of the boys, noting the fierce determination on each and every one. Crutchie'd be proud that they were all fighting for him. "Once and for all," Jack sang out in the silence, "if they don't mind their manners, we'll bleed them!"

"Bleed them!" the boys repeated, nodding. It was only fair, after all.

Race thrust his fist into the air, shouting, "Once and for all, we won't carry no banners that don't spell freedom!"

At this, Les waved his banner in the air and the action caused Jack's heart to lurch uncomfortably. That should be Crutchie with the banner. The kid had wanted to show he was part of the strike somehow and Jack had jokingly suggested he make a sign signifying his membership in the strike. Crutchie had taken the suggestion to heart and come back with a banner which he had pinned to his crutch. Jack had no idea what the Delancey brothers and Snyder had done to the kid's banner and suddenly wished he had it to remember his best friend, his brother, by.

"Finally we'se raisin' the stakes. This time whatever it takes. This time the union awakes, once and for all!" the boys sang. "This is for kids shining shoes on the street with no shoes on their feet every day. This is for guys sweating blood in the shops while their bosses and cops look away." This is for Crutchie: it remained unspoken, but mutually understood among all the newsies.

"I'm seeing kids standing tall, glaring and raring to brawl. Armies of guys who are sick of the lies, getting ready to rise to the call! Once and for all, there'll be blood on the wall if they doubt us." Jack fell silent as the other boys sang. Unbidden, his mind leaped to the room in the Refuge where he had last seen Crutchie. He hated to wonder it, but morbid curiosity battered his brain with questions of whether Crutchie's blood was on that wall, on that floor. Whether, if he ever returned, he'd see the last remnants of his best friend. Singing loudly to push that awful thought away, Jack continued, "They think they're running this town, but this town will shut down without us. Ten thousand kids in the square, ten thousand fists in the air!" But, minus one because Crutchie wasn't—"Joe, you is gonna play fair, once and for all!"

The boys nodded to each other, taking up the call, "Once and for all!" It was repeated over and over again, a call to arms for the newsies.

"There's change coming, once and for all! You're getting too old, too weak to keep holding on. A new world is gunning for you, and Joe, we is too, 'til once and for all, you're gone!" The boys all cried in one voice.

Davey sang out, "Once and for all," leading the rest of the newsies to repeat the cry.

"Once and for all!" Jack added angrily, knowing that now, all didn't mean everyone it had meant at the start of the strike. They were still fighting for Crutchie, of course, but it wasn't the same. Would never be the same. With one last shout of grief, anger, and defiance, Jack led the boys into the final strike.

* * *

It was over. They had finally won. Jack looked around at the faces of his fellow newsies, taking in the grins and the congratulations that were being swapped. He almost smiled. But, the cost of the strike was just too great. Jack was glad that they had won, for the boys' sake. For him, however, it wasn't worth it. The next opportunity he had, Jack was hitting the road. And he was never coming back to this horrid city ever again.

"What're your plans now?" Davey asked. He must've noticed the way Jack wasn't partaking in any of the joyous shouts and celebrations. His face was flushed and he was grinning, but Jack just couldn't return the smile.

"Don't really know. I'm leaving, though. Next train outta here, I'll be on it," Jack muttered, gazing up at the blue sky. At least, when he got to wherever he was going and it was night, he'd still be able to see the stars.

"You're just going to leave? After we won and everything?" Davey asked, his question drawing the attention of some of the closer newsies.

Jack shrugged. "There ain't much here that's going to be keeping me." Jack lowered his voice. "I've lost everything, Davey."

"You won the strike!" Les pointed out, excitedly.

"It ain't the same," Jack muttered. When Jack had first decided to strike against the World, he had imagined what their win would be like. The daydreams varied: Pulitzer thrown into jail, the newsies swarming the World and trashing the entire newspaper office, even as unbelievable as Jack being appointed the new president of the newspaper. But all of these imaginations had one thing in common: Crutchie was always there, standing right beside Jack, grinning and taking in the triumph.

Race spoke up, "It's your decision, Jack. If you wanna go, you're gonna. Like I said the other night, y'know?"

"Thanks, Race. And I will miss all of you. It was quite the adventure."

Katherine shoved her way to Jack's side, "If you're leaving, I'm coming too."

"No, Katherine, you ain't gotta—"

"Jack!" There was a small shout from the outskirts of the crowd. Jack's shoulders immediately stiffened because he knew that voice. He recognized that voice. But, that was completely, utterly, totally, irrevocably impossible. Crutchie was dead. He had been murdered by Snyder, by the Delancey brothers. He couldn't be—"Jack!" the cry was repeated again, and Jack, unwilling to believe what he was hearing, not willing to have that hope torn away again, turned toward where the voice was coming. Jack watched as the crowd parted, allowing the speaker to make their way to Jack. His stomach began to flip nervously and his mouth grew drier by the second. If by some unbelievable miracle Crutchie wasn't—If he was actually still alive—

The crowd finished stepping aside and Jack was finally able to see who had been calling his name. "C-Crutchie?" Jack stuttered, staring in disbelief at what was surely an apparition, a horribly vicious trick of the light.

"Yeah, who was ya expecting? George Washington?" Crutchie had barely gotten the words out of his mouth before Jack leaped toward where the younger boy was standing and pulled him into a tight embrace.

"I thought you was dead," Jack whispered, slightly pulling out of the hug, but not completely letting go. If he let go, Jack was irrationally afraid that the boy would disappear, return to being dead. He couldn't believe that Crutchie was actually here, that the boy was still breathing.

Crutchie shrugged, hugging Jack back. "Snyder lied to all of you. Wanted you to think I was dead so that you'd quit the strike."

Race snorted from behind Crutchie. "It almost worked."

"I woulda come back," Jack protested.

"Maybe…" Race muttered doubtfully.

Davey came up and patted Crutchie on the back. "It's great to have you back and, uh, not dead."

"Thanks," Crutchie said, not really knowing how else to respond to that.

Jack finally released his best friend, stepping back to observe the boy. "They didn't hurt you anymore, did they?"

"Not since you came to the Refuge. Just sorta locked me up away from everyone."

"What's this?" Jack gestured to the cane Crutchie was leaning on.

Crutchie shrugged once more. "They took my crutch. This used to be Snyder's, I think."

Mush pushed forward, glancing at the cane. "You got the Spider's cane?"

"Well, yeah, I don't have my crutch no more. I need a new one."

"It's back at the Lodging House. The Delancey brothers gave it to me to prove you was dead," Jack explained.

Crutchie grinned. "Good, cuz I didn't want to buy a new crutch."

"You didn't even buy your old one. That was me," Jack pointed out, simply glad to have Crutchie back. He hadn't realized how much he missed the friendly banter between him and Crutchie.

"Oh, yeah. So it was," Crutchie admitted sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. Crutchie glanced around the different boys, taking in the flushed faces and the wide grins. "I'm sorry I missed most of the strike," he muttered.

"You were the strike!" Les shouted proudly.

Crutchie grinned down at Les. "Whaddya mean by that?"

"Everyone was fighting for you. Or, really, in memory of you, since we all thought you were dead," Les explained. "But you aren't dead, so it's all good."

"So, what now?" Crutchie asked, turning to Jack. "You headin' out to Santa Fe, the grand city of clay?"

Jack glanced around at all the other newsies, before smiling. "No. I think everything I need is right here."

"There ain't no palominos," Crutchie pointed out.

"I don't need palominos."

"Good," Crutchie said, nodding to himself. "I don't know how to ride a horse."

Jack grinned. "Don't I know it. You can barely work that crutch of yours."

Crutchie half-heartedly swung his fist at Jack, simply glad that he could be back, surrounded by his friends. The motion almost caused Crutchie to lose his balance and he toppled sideways. Jack caught him, laughing. "I don't know why I stick around with you fellows," Crutchie mused, pretending to be hurt by Jack's laughter.

"You'se gotta stick with us. We'se your family," Jack said, patting Crutchie's back, before leading the newsies off to Jacobi's for celebratory cups of water.

* * *

 **A final thank you to all who have reviewed this story and supported me in all aspects of the writing process! Baby ostriches to you all! And to those of you who say I only write sad fics, I'd like to point out that this is a happy ending, sooooo... But, yeah, do expect more sadness and feelz in the next couple stories. I'm in one of those moods...**


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